Fever
by Promiscuous Misprocuous
Summary: When Remus is ill, Sirius can never just stay away.


**Fever**

His skin feels like paper. Not to the touch so much as just everywhere—on him, around him, surrounding him in a hell of sensation that feels utterly inadequate for holding together his bones and organs and muscles. Hypersensitive to touch. To _any_ touch. Which _sucks_ because his body can't decide whether it's too hot or too cold (but definitely too much _something_ in a _bad_ way) and he has to keep layering on more sheets and throwing them off again.

And it's grating like sand against his paper skin.

His limbs feel heavy, too. Like there's thick, heavy ink sloughing through the veins and arteries and capillaries instead of blood like there usually is.

Like if the sheets wear through the paper barrier of his skin the black will leak out and stain everything.

Even his thoughts are groggy: sloppy, illegible print smudging under and beside and across the otherwise neat lines of text on the walls of his mind.

Remus hates being sick. He already has to feel weak and run down (_and tired and haggard and worn_) for a few days a month, having to be feverish and hazy besides is just unfair.

But, at the same time, it's totally worth it.

Because when Sirius gets off school (or just can't stand to be away for a moment longer) he doesn't spend any time worrying about catching whatever it is that Remus has. He just plops himself on Remus' bed with his usual lack of regard for personal space and places his (relatively) cool hands on Remus' (_burning, sweating_) forehead and starts to talk. Softly. Gently.

Almost like he's important.

And, just for a moment, just for _that_ moment, he wants to be sick forever. He wants to be _here_ forever. Not so much lying in his bed in Hogwarts with paper skin, but with Sirius tucked against his side, being lulled to sleep by idle chatter humming softly mere inches from his ear. Convincing himself that he feels the light, dry press of lips against his temple as he drifts off.

And sometimes, when he wakes up and his skin feels like skin again, Sirius is still there. And his hair is matted and his eyes are crusty and there's a line of drool connecting his mouth to his bedspread. And every time he sees this, he knows. He doesn't want any one moment forever—then he would miss out on all of the other moments. Miss the moment that he opens his eyes to the obnoxious snoring and the pressure wrinkles from the bed sheets cross-hatching Sirius' stubble-covered face. He could never truly want a single moment of one thing when he so keenly knows that he wants everything.

He wants morning breath and groggy salutations and stolen moments with Sirius before he can make up some excuse and run away. He wants mid-June mud fights and midnight snack runs. And wild-eyed planning. And wide brimmed smiles. And torn uniforms, and fireside conversations, and stupid justifications and hushed warnings and everything, just absolutely _everything_ he can get.

He wants midnight walks around the lake.

He wants Sirius. And there are some moments in the middle of a plan, or in a mad rush of last-minute studying for a test, or when Remus is confined to his bed with a fever when he can _have _him.

Of course, for now he's miserable and alone, sticky sweat soaking into the fabric of his pants and sheets, wrapped in his paper skin and trying not to move too much. But he can already hear the telltale laughter/breath of Sirius running up the stairs echoing off the walls and rattling around in his head. They're bones shaken in the hand. Bones_ cast_ as he bursts into the room, a bundle of energy contained, emitting light through the gray of the eyes and the white of the teeth (the wide of the smile.) There is sunshine pouring out of his skin.

He settles his weight onto Remus' bed (_gently- so gently_) and somehow manages to not move (_"somehow" because this is Sirius and he's always moving,_) a heavy, comfortable warmth at his side.

And lays a hand on Remus' hot forehead—

Starts babbling.

Moves his hands away from Remus' head. Puts them on his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders, his arms. His chest.

Keeps on rambling in a quiet, rumbling sort of way, where most of the noise comes from his rib cage as opposed to his throat.

Gets quieter as Remus' eyes close.

Moves his hands (_not so cool anymore_) back to Remus' face.

Touches so lightly.

And Remus is fading fast when his voice drops to a whisper.

But he hears it, still.

Squished between an incomplete sentence about Quiddich and a half-baked thought about what house elves do in their time off.

"God you're beautiful"

Warm hand on Remus' cheek and nose nestled snug against his ear, the whispering continues as he slips off to sleep.

And this time he knows that the press of Sirius' mouth against his temple isn't just a dream.

* * *

A/N

Con-crit way appreciated.

~Misprocuous


End file.
